Tom & Huck

By Frank Fernandes

The idyllic boyhood shared by Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn has been just a memory. Time has passed and now, as adults, they are thrust into the worst sectional violence America has ever witnessed, a precursor of the Civil War, between abolitionist, activists, and pro-slavery proponents. A new time of mistrust, murder, and mayhem is the new norm. In this atmosphere of division and chaos, one bad decision changes their lives forever. They must depend on each other now more than any other time in their lives because everything they know and love has been swept away. As Confederate soldiers in this most trying time, loyalty to each other is all they have.

• Language: English
• Publisher: XinXii
• Release date: Nov 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781607968900

Book preview

Tom & Huck:

The Civil War Years

Volume 1

Frank Fernandes

Tom & Huck: The Civil War Years

Copyright © 2016 by Frank Fernandes

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All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of Revival Waves of Glory Books & Publishing.

Published by Revival Waves of Glory Books & Publishing

PO Box 596| Litchfield, Illinois 62056 USA

www.revivalwavesofgloryministries.com

Revival Waves of Glory Books & Publishing is committed to excellence in the publishing industry.

Book design copyright © 2015 by Revival Waves of Glory Books & Publishing. All rights reserved.

EBook: 978-1-60796-890-0

Paperback: 978-0692552940

Published in the United States of America

E-Book Distribution: XinXii

www.xinxii.com

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Hooker had lost faith in Hooker. If there had ever been a general of an army that had been beaten, cuffed, and humiliated in the history of armed conflict more than General ‘Fightn’ Joe’ Hooker, it would have to be an extreme rarity. His confidence in his own ability to lead an army had unraveled during the recent battle of Chancellorsville. His reputation was shattered as badly as the Army of the Potomac that he had so proudly led into the thick woods of Virginia. The Army of the Potomac had once again become the commissary arm of the Army of Northern Virginia fulfilling the ancient military maxim, To the victor belongs the spoils.

Blankets, rifles, shoes, haversacks filled with spare clothing and coffee, and ammunition pouches lay scattered in mute testimony to the speed in which the northern boys had sacredly resolved to save themselves from annihilation. The Union could always be saved later.

Private Thomas Sawyer shifted unsteadily on his feet. Sweat tended to obscure his vision causing him to squint. This morning’s ersatz coffee had left a bitter taste in his mouth and had given him a terrible bout of heartburn. The morning mist fought a losing battle with the creeping rays of the sun that filtered through the treetops and showered below on the uneasy lines of men clad in butternut brown and gray.

They were drawn up to witness the execution of a soldier from their division. The condemned man had been convicted of desertion under fire, attempted murder, and robbery. During the fighting at Chancellorsville, the man’s regiment had been positioned near an old unfinished railroad cut in the woods. Federal forces had outflanked his regiment and had cut it to pieces. Many soldiers had run to escape certain death or capture. The unfortunate soldier had had the bad luck of being recognized by a group of staff officers who had disciplined him in the past for striking an officer and saw in his headlong flight from battle a perfect opportunity to make an example of him.

It didn't matter to these staff officers that his decision to run had been tactically correct. It didn't matter that many from his own company had run as well or that many in the regiment had been captured or killed. What mattered was that he had shamefully run from the enemy early in the fight and had been seen by nearly everyone. And of course, to make matters worse, he had been captured by Provost Guards, men specifically ordered to catch stragglers and deserters and had grievously wounded one and had escaped. He had then robbed a medical supply wagon at gunpoint and had proceeded to get gloriously drunk on the medicinal whiskey. This was his undoing. He was apprehended, tried in a court-martial and sentenced to die by firing squad.

The assembled soldiers were disgruntled and hungry this morning. Although most of the pickings on the battlefield had been gone over days earlier, most of them would have much preferred to be wandering around looking for things that may have been overlooked from burial parties or ordinance men. A gathering like this only meant that others, particularly rear echelon mule drivers and maggots would have the last chance for the thin pickings that may be left.

The gathered host was, therefore, in a foul mood. Everyone gathered in the clearing to witness the execution hoped the condemned man wouldn't botch it by carrying on and delaying the inevitable. In the same clearing, called Hazel Grove by the local people, the Federal Army had attempted to stave off the murderous attention being paid to it by Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson. The Federal forces had assembled a battery of field artillery here when the Union center collapsed and the left flank of their army had rolled up like a scroll. They had tried to center the line and had failed. However, the artillery had bought the time needed for the entire Union Army to escape total destruction, but at a terrible cost in Northern lives.

Scattered around the clearing were shattered artillery caissons, broken wheels, ruptured cannons and dead horses and equipment of every imaginable sort. Most of anything of use had already been picked over by ordinance and quartermaster personnel. Under a few inches of dry loose baked red Virginia soil lay youngsters from Massachusetts, Connecticut, Ohio, New Jersey, and New York. In a few spots near the edges of the grove where the wounded had been brought to die beneath the shade of the trees, a fist poked up out of a too shallow grave. Dark brown spots on the green grass still attracted flies. A breeze swept the tops of the trees bringing with it the mixed smell of dogwood trees and putrefaction.

I wished that they would get this over with, Tom said as he wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. The soldier standing in ranks next to Tom burped loudly. Private Huck Finn swayed from the recoil of his violent belch.

Excuse the pig, the hog is a’ gruntin’, Huck said.

This whole sha-bang isn’t right. Making us stand in rank and wait practically all morning like this here to see a man put down like a damned sick old dog, Tom replied, ignoring his friends attempt at levity.

What do you think they should do with him? Huck asked. Do you think they should give him a ten feet head start and tell him to cut back an’ forth right quick? Huck stared straight ahead trying to avoid being spotted talking in ranks. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

Let me tell you, Tom. It don’t matter if they string a rope around his neck and swing him from a sour apple tree or if they sit him down a cracker box and send him to the Almighty full of lead shot. It don’t matter. They already done made up their minds. It’s all a done deed. The waitin’ part is for our benefit. All this here is supposed to bother you, to make you think hard about runnin’ durin’ a fight. That’s why it don’t matter an’ that’s why they make us wait out here like this.

Sergeant Rawlings quickly walked down the line of men and stood in front of the pair. He glared angrily at them.

I should have knowed it was you two jackasses jabberin’ away. Keep your traps shut an’ your eyes to the front or so help me when this is done with I will make you eat your own livers. He stared at Huck almost eyeball to eyeball with him before he turned and strode angrily away from him.

I sure as hell would like to know how he manages to pop up like that all the time. It ain’t natural. It’s as if he’s some kinda’ spook or haint. He comes at you right out of thin air, I swear, Huck muttered under his breadth.

The idea of eating anything, especially liver, made Huck’s stomach churn. He fought back desperately against a gag reflex that was hitting him in waves. His belly was awash in bile, the result of his having eaten too many green ears of corn the previous night. He started to say something but instead tried to cover his mouth to hold back the vomit he felt welling up in his throat. He jackknifed forward and his rifle dropped from his grasp and hit the ground. He quickly stooped over to retrieve it and vomited all over his feet. Whistles, laughter and catcalls began immediately from those nearest him witnessing his plight. Rawlings once again stomped down the line of men towards Tom and Huck.

Order in the ranks, he shouted. You are at attention and not on a church social. No talkin’ or stirrin’ in the ranks. The next man that I hear laugh will wisht’ he was never born. It had better be quiet damned quick so that I can hear a mouse fart in the woods if I so desire.

All was quiet again. Everyone stared blankly ahead as the sergeant walked over to Huck and whispered something in his ear. Rawlings smiled and walked back to his place at the end of the line of soldiers. He glanced at Huck with a smug look and then spotted Captain Cobb who was beginning to display interest and irritation at this most recent breach of military protocol and good taste.

Captain Theodocius Cobb was one of Virginia’s proud aristocracies, a member of the Tidewater planter’s class who could trace his ancestry to a particular manor house outside of London. His grandfather had been a close friend of George Washington. He came from wealth and privilege and held in low regard anyone not from his social strata. He had learned that Tom and Huck hailed from Missouri and he viewed them both as backwoods savages. He was not at all surprised that it was they who were acting badly in formation. He looked in annoyance at the pair and then at Sergeant Rawlings.

The sergeant puffed out his chest like a peacock in an attempt to appear taller when he noticed the captain’s attention was focused on him. He stood ramrod straight in an effort to impress his superior officer. After his little private chat with Huck, Rawlings had looked like he was experiencing beatific visions. The sergeant felt himself clever and all powerful and glowed happily as he thought of a fitting punishment for Huck. He felt himself to be indispensable in the running of company C, a man destined for great achievements and everlasting fame. In his innermost being he felt that Cobb respected and trusted him. He imagined after the war that the good Captain would perhaps reward all the years of service with him with an important job on one of the captain’s vast plantations. Captain Cobb studied Rawlings for a brief moment reflecting on how big an ass the man truly was.

Tom whispered carefully to his friend when he knew that the sergeant’s attention was elsewhere.

What did that pain in the ass have to say? he asked.

He said that he hopes I like my liver with onions.

Tom’s eyes widened in surprise.

That ain’t good, he said.

From the rear of the assembled men, drums started crashing a loud roll. As the deadman’s march started, everyone’s attention was riveted at the appearance and movement of the firing squad. They marched smartly to their assigned positions a few yards from where the coffin and pre-dug grave were. They stood at attention waiting for their next cue. Starting from the rear of the regiment and walking slowly towards the firing squad came the regimental chaplain and the condemned man. Lieutenant Custiss and Colonel Edmonds followed a few steps behind them.

The condemned man, Private Archibald Conboy, was a pathetic looking figure. His hands and legs were shackled and he hopped forward in little steps. The chaplain, taking into consideration his abnormal gait, was forced in turn to take the same rabbit like hops. Chaplain Janes was exhausted. He had stayed up all night listening patiently to the complaints, protests, and fears of the condemned man. Archibald had vehemently raged into the night. Archibald had insisted that it was all a case of mistaken identity. When this had failed to create the intended results, Archibald then had claimed that a mini-ball had creased his skull rendering him temporarily crazy and bereft of a memory. His eyes were wild looking. It was apparent to Chaplain Janes that Archibald was going to make a spectacle of himself. It was the chaplain’s job to see that he did not.

Gripping the prisoner’s arm tightly, Chaplain Janes could feel the man’s panic rising like a fever. Archie walked towards the grave spasmodically.

Archibald, Chaplain Janes said soothingly, don’t look at them. Look at me. Remember what we spoke of this morning. You are forgiven by the Most High. You are a new man in the eyes of the Lord. You are as innocent to him as a new born baby. You do not need the approval of man when you are in the approval of the Almighty.

I wisht’ I was a little old baby right now, parson. They don’t shoot little baby boys by firing squad, Archie whimpered. The Chaplain swallowed nervously.

A little courage now is all it will take, the Chaplain whispered. Archie continued hopping towards the grave.

The Good Lord has placed you in his loving hands this day and will not cause you to suffer the pains of eternal damnation or the pains of man. You must believe this, my son.

Archibald’s head was swiveling around like an owl as he searched the formations of men for a familiar face. He desperately looked for someone from home as he shuffled towards the waiting coffin. However, all of his company and friends were positioned on the far left of the grave and he could not make any of them out. His panic rose by the second as he neared the coffin where he was to be seated. Chaplain Janes began to read from his opened Bible.

Parson Janes, You got to make them understand, Archie pleaded. He grabbed the Chaplains arm with his manacled hands.

This here is all a mistake. Yassuh, it is true that I quit the fight and yassuh, it is true I shot that damned Provo fella an’ robbed him, but I didn’t kill him. It was self defense. Why hell, Parson, them fellas were set to kick my head round. I was drunk on top of it all. I shot him is all. The fella should know that it comes with the job. You got to tell someone that I was fixin’ on comin’ back after the heat died down. That’s the truth. I swear. I jest’ needed a few days to clear my head an’ I would have come right back, yes siree-Bob. Tell someone important like an’ let’s make by-gones be by-gones.

Chaplain Janes looked into Archie’s frantic fear filled orbs and saw that he had failed as a chaplain. Archie was going to ruin everything. Instead of a sense of peace and resignation in Archie’s eyes, there stood defiantly a spark of hope blended in with quite a bit of pure terror. Chaplain Janes knew that this was a dangerous combination in a condemned prisoner and tried desperately to control his own rising fear.

Iff’n they was, lets say, to give me another chance, why I will safely say nothin’ of the likes will nary happen again, on my soul, Archie smiled. I knows that you are good with words. Alls you gotta’ do is say somethin’ smart like to the Colonel here an’ everything will get fixed. All this God awful whoop jamboree ain’t necessary at’all. Please parson, tell the Colonel somethin’ smart like as to how I was fixin’ on comin’ on back. I swear on my good mother’s soul, may she rest in peace, that he has my word that this will never happen agin’. I was always a good soldier. Ask anybody, for heavens sake.

Archie’s eyes darted to the coffin and then to the horrible yawning pit. Chaplain Janes was lost for words and instead continued to read from his Bible.

Archie remained confident that the parson would save him. Lieutenant Custiss and Colonel Edmonds joined them. Lieutenant Custiss offered him a blindfold.

Now lets all holt’ on a minute, Lootenant. I don’ t believe I’ll be needn’ no blindfold, sir. Let’s not rush things here. The parsons was jest’ goin’ to have a few words with the General, so you can put that danged thing away. We won't be need'n any of this so might I suggest to y’all to dismiss the whole gathrin’. Right, parson?

Two men grabbed Archie by his elbows and led him to the coffin.

Let’s us all holt’ on a danged minute, boys, he protested.

He stared dumbly at the chaplain. Somewhere in his mind, a voice screamed for him to run but he knew there was to be no escape. The Lieutenant then forced Archie to sit on the coffin as the chaplain continued to pray over him. Archie could see the firing squad that was at his front and was distracted from studying their faces when Colonel Edmonds appeared holding a large paper in his hands. Things were happening quickly, much too fast for the likes of the condemned man and he felt his life slipping away from him. He began to finally realize that the end was fast approaching. The trial, the court-martial and the last few hours sped through his mind in a blur.

May God have mercy on your soul. May the Lord take you to His bosom this day and may you rest in perpetual light with Him and all the souls of the departed, Amen, the chaplain wearily intoned with as much care and concern that he was able.

Parson? Archie said weakly.

Chaplain Janes stepped to the side as Colonel Edmonds began to read from the large sheet of paper that he held in his hands. Archie's eyes were as big as saucers and his mouth hung open.

Private Archibald. P. Conboy, the court has found you guilty of desertion under fire, robbery and the attempted murder of a Provost Guard. The penalty of death to be carried out this day, the offenses being capital crimes and the penalty to be death by firing squad in the proscribed manner of military justice. Would you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?

Colonel Edmond’s eyes pleaded for Archie to remain quiet, but Archie felt that he must somehow make them all see reason. When he glanced over and saw the distraught face of Chaplain Janes all of his energy flowed out of his body. That look said it all. Edmonds sternly looked at Archie as their eyes met.

Yes, I kinda figger I do. You'all know what kinda’ spot we was in that day. The Yankees seemed to pop out the danged ground, there was so many of them. They kept on comin’. We fit’ them hard, but it wasn't no good. I ran, but so did the whole damned company for that matter, those that was breathin’ and still able. You’all know this. I want everybody to know that I ain’t no dang cowart’. I only done what any normal person with common good sense would have done. I know what this here is all about and it ain’t got to do with runnin’. It's because I slapped that prissy captain in the mouth and he deserved it.

Archie seemed placid now, more than Chaplain Janes had ever seen him be.

I ain't never had a bit of luck, no how. The way I figger’, better it be here and now than later. That's all I gotta’ say. Good luck to all of yer’ an no hard feelins’, Archie said loudly. He sat back down on the coffin.

Colonel Edmonds sighed with relief. He stiffly turned away and marched to the left of the coffin. The sun made little splotches of light dance on the brown wood of the coffin. Archie Conboy squinted in the direction of the firing squad. Birds sang cheerily in the trees.

Ready..., the Lieutenant shouted.

Aim.

The firing squad lifted their rifles to their shoulders. All in a matter of seconds, the Lieutenant lifted his sword skyward as thirteen men looked down their gun-sights at Archibald Conboy.

Suddenly, as if inspired with a revelation, Archie stood up to his full height and with his manacled hands stretched as wide as he was able yelled for all the world to hear. It was a plaintiff yell of wild defiance.

I was a fixin' on a comin' back!

Fire.

The Lieutenant’s sword flashed downward in a lightning arc as the rifles all discharged together. The shots hit Archie like an invisible fist and he somersaulted over the coffin, his feet whipping over his head as gravity deposited him in the pre-dug grave. A vapor like trail of dust curled out of the earth.

Everyone stood in silent awe over what they had witnessed. No one had ever seen anyone act in the manner that Archie had and they were stunned. Then, in ragged unison, a cheer started and ran the length of the ranks. Hats were thrown into the air as men from Archie's Division started a rebel yell that could be heard for miles. Cheer after cheer sounded from their throats like a claxon call as men began to chant his name. Colonel Edmonds looked at Chaplain Janes and offered him his hand.

Good job, Chaplain, good job indeed, well done. I must say, however, unless his name is Lazarus instead of Conboy, I daresay that he will not be coming back any time too soon.

Amen to that, Colonel, the chaplain said with weariness and wonder in his voice. Lieutenant Custiss returned his sword to its sheath and in a loud voice yelled to a sergeant to dismiss all present company of the firing party. Other officers in the ranks started to restore order. Sergeants roared in turn to their companies as commands were passed up and down the formation of soldiers. They all came to attention and waited to be dismissed. When it was Tom and Huck's turn to be dismissed, they turned and started back to their bivouac area.

You gotta hand it to Archie. He died game, Huck said.

Tom looked at Huck with surprise.

You mean he died like game. Shot down like a scared rabbit, he said with disgust.

The walk back to their bivouac area was a long one and they started trudging back. Huck remained silent, sensing the anger in his friend. The man had died well, he thought. At least he hadn’t been sniveling and carrying on or crying for his dear mother like some he had witnessed. Finally, the silence grew too much for him.

You think he died like a scairt’ rabbit? Huck asked, watching Tom's face carefully for any telltale signs of anger. Tom betrayed little emotion as he adjusted the weight of his rifle to his right shoulder.

Of course he did, Tom said calmly. Let me ask you a question now. Do you think he was fixin’ to come back after his unofficial furlough?

I don't rightly know. What do they call it when a man is dyin’ and he confesses to a crime? Ain't that called a deathbed confession and ain’t they lawful? Ain't that jest what he did? If that’s the case then, maybe he was fixin’ to come back.

Archie punched Captain Cobb in the mouth. They were looking for a reason to settle his hash. If he was smart, he should have kept on runnin’ and not got caught the way he did. I don’t believe he was plannin’ on ever comin’ back. He was just plain scared. He would have said anything if he thought it would get him off at this point. He would have claimed to be Jefferson Davis if he thought it would save him. Look, I ain’t sayin’ what he did was wrong. I'm sayin’ they shouldn’t shoot a man when his nerves give way. From what I understand, he was justified in getting out of that damned ditch he was in. That regiment was in a bind. They were outflanked. Only makes sense in what he did. Archie wasn't the only one to run that day. Like he said, the whole company ran. They made an example out of him, for punchin’ the daylights out of Captain Cobb.

Huck knew what Tom was saying was true. He scratched at his crotch as he walked along. The body lice moved in accordance with a will of their own. Scratching just moved the concentrations about and temporarily eased the itching.

He died scairt’ but I ain't findin’ no fault in him, mind you, Tom said thoughtfully When the bullets start flyin’, I get so scared that I feel like running too. I am not criticizing him on running. His downfall was getting drunk. If he had been a little smarter, he might have had a chance on getting away.

Huck carefully weighed what Tom was saying.

Shootin’ a fella doesn’t do any of us any good. There are plenty of fellas that head for home everyday and spectacles like we were just forced to witness surely don’t stop them. The whole damned thing this morning was sick. Tom stopped in mid stride and looked skyward.

The revolution just goes on eating its own children, he said dramatically. Huck abruptly stopped.

Who's eatin’ what?

Never mind. It ain't important anymore, Tom said, wishing to change the subject of their conversation. Huck was totally confused by what Tom had said. This was an occurrence that happened regularly. Huck blamed this on Tom’s having read too many books when he was younger. Pap had told him years ago that reading tended to drive a man crazy in time. He was accustomed to the way Tom’s thought process worked but was often mystified by how he phrased things. He did not proceed with it any further. He did question how Tom could even think of eating. He must have a cast iron stomach, he thought.

They had shared a feast of green corn the other night. Huck's stomach was in open rebellion now as it gurgled and rolled. Bile once again began to erupt in his throat as the sudden image of Rawling’s making him eat his own liver smothered in onions became vivid in his mind. It was just another thing he had to worry about as the residue of fried dough in bacon grease and undigested green corn welled up in his throat.

I’m gonna be sick again, Huck said, running to the side of the road. He dropped on all fours and started heaving up. Tom turned away and stared into the thick woods that bordered the road.

I hate to tell ya’ I told ya’ so, but I told you so. The way you went at them green ears last night, it ain’t no surprise to me. I tried to warn you but your eyes was bigger than your stomach, Tom said.

Huck tried to stand but instead he doubled up again and fell to his knees with his hands outstretched in front of him.

Maybe you'll feel better once it’s all out of ya’. Eatin’ as many green ears of corn as you did last night is one sure fired way of killing yourself damnably quick. Tom distractedly thought about how thick the woods were as Huck continued retching and moaning. Huck finally righted himself and blew a stream of something horrible out of his nose. He wiped a dirty hand over an even filthier face then reached for his canteen.

You know, I was jest ponderin’ how truly odd things are with everything in the long perspective, Tom said quietly. Huck poured water on his face and then attempted a few gulps of tepid water. He half listened to Tom between shivers.

Remember, what you said this morning about all of that was for our benefit. How shootin’ Archie was a lesson meant for us to learn by? I was jest thinkin’ about our own Corp Commander. I should say, our own late Corp commander…Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson. Old ‘Bluelight’ had a passel of people shot for runnin’. He shot a lot of homesick fellas’, the way I figure it.

Huck's eyes rolled in his head. He slowly stood up. He nearly emptied the contents of his canteen on his upturned face.

Do go on, if you would, Mr. Sawyer…don’t mind me. I’m all ears. Green ones at that, he croaked weakly. His throat burned and he was sweating profusely. Tom ignored this last comment and strove towards the point that he was trying to make.

It’s powerful ironic that General Jackson was shot by his own people. Old Blue Light would have a man shot for runnin’ at the drop of a hat and he'd usually be the one a droppin’ it, Tom said convincingly, as if he had just read it out of a newspaper. Huck wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.

You got somethin’ there, Tom. He was the shootingest general we ever had, God rest him. He played hell with the Yankees and with us. I bin’ a meanin’ to ask you this but kept on fergettin’. Why did they call General Jackson Old Bluelight. I mean I can understand why they called him Stonewall. There stands Jackson like a stonewall. Rally around him, boys. This I can understand. On the other hand, some folks claim that General Bee was sayin’ that Jackson wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but hangin’ back and was as useful in the fight as an old stone wall. But why Blue Light?

They say when he was riled his eyes would glow blue like. Ain’t that the damnedest thing?

Tom shifted his rifle and started to plod forward. He still stared off into the woods, admiring the beautiful early morning.

Mighty strange how he passed on. Truly full of irony and poetic justice. Shot down and killed by the men of his own army. Many a man he had shot from his own army for runnin’ away in a battle, and his own army sends him to his final reward and the Almighty. Powerful ironic. A regular wonderment, Tom said.

Huck took a few tentative steps forward to keep up with Tom. His head still spun and briefly he felt himself almost spinning into the ground. The road soon took his feet and he preceded, none the worse, as his head started to clear. He imagined his head to be filled with cobwebs and as time continued the cobwebs thinned with each step.

I heard that it was South Carolina boys that sent him to glory. It seems like our late Corp commander was trying to figure out a way to get behind the Yankees when they all broke and ran. He was searching out a road in the dark, and that's when the Carolina boys let loose at him and his party. They thought it was Yankee cavalry coming down the road but it wasn’t. It was old 'Bluelight’ himself. He was killed in a case of mistaken identity. Tom stopped to let Huck catch up with him.

It doesn’t get more ironic than that. They say that if he hadn't been killed like that, that he would have found a way to get behind the Federal retreat and end the war just like that. There would have been no more Army of the Potomac, Tom said enthusiastically.

What's this ironic you bin’ sayin’. What is it? Huck asked.

Tom looked at Huck and pointed to the side of his own face.

Wipe over here. You’re still wearing some of last nights repartee on your face, Tom said. Huck complied, wiping at his face with his sleeve.

"Irony, my friend, is what authors use a lot in their writings.

Arthur who? Huck asked.

Not Arthur, Tom said, Authors. That's what they call a book writer. Perdition's sake, a book wouldn't be a proper book if it didn't have a fair dose of irony in it. They all use it," Tom said knowingly. Huck noticed the look that had started to creep across Tom's face. He knew that look only too well. It was the look that crossed his features when he was about to lecture about something that he liked to talk about. Huck had seen that look countless times before.

That still ain't tellin' me what it is, Huck said carefully.

You know what fate is, don't yer? Tom asked.

I reckon I do, Huck replied.

Fate and irony go hand in hand. Irony is a twist on fate. Sort of like somethin' unexpected like in a persons life, outside what a body would expect in a normal given situation, Tom stated. Tom searched the immediate vicinity for a stump to sit on. Having found one, he sat down and placed his rifle against a tree. He shifted his worn slouch hat on his head as Huck sat down next to him. Huck balanced his rifle in his lap.

I remember hearin' the Parson Janes talkin' about fate one time, Huck said. Artillery was landin' all around us that day. Some fellas' was jumpin' from one spot to t'other. That's when the Parson Janes said that one spot was as good as another. He said to stay put. That jumpin' around was jest temptin' fate. He said that if it was your time, nothin' you kin' do can keep you from gettin' all mashed to a pulp. He said to trust in God and put your fate in him.

Faith and fate is two different things, Tom grinned, "Your mixing up the two. He said to put your trust in God.